Page 11 of Sire
“You can’t stay with me. I’m a pastor. Pretty, young women can’t live with me.”
Not true. He confessed in the car when he rescued me,I lay with men. I lay with women. I have some very dark needs when I do.
That means he’s not celibate. Quite the opposite.
Andpretty?Oh, God, it wets the part of my body that’s been imagining him all week.
After the hell I’d been through, I closed my eyes at night, needing to fantasize about the heaven we could share. The Pastor’s hot body, tangled with men. His lips, his fingers, his …God yes,every part of him claiming me, too.
Sure, I’m a virgin, but I’ve watched porn. It’s been my only exposure and education, and now all I can do is picture this man doing every sweet and salacious thing to me.
For the rest of my life.
Standing so close to him, my cheeks burn. The intense way he stares at me, heat drips down my body. Pooling wet and warm, between my thighs like never before.
I force them not to shake in his holy presence.
The Pastor is the hottest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying a lot considering his smoldering sibling beside me.
“This isn’t a monastery.” I glance around. Mr. Muscle led us through buildings and hallways. This church takes up a city block. “I’m sure there’s a room for me somewhere. I can cook, clean, pull weeds, and babysit kids. I can also get a job nearby and save money. I just need to staysafeand stay with you.”
“Me?” He steps into my air. “Why? Who’s after you?”
His cologne—amber, oak, and musk—grabs me. He’s so close, I discern the tattoo on his high cheekbone, too. A small, broken heart. And his indigo eyes are changing, softening. He’s worried.
“It’s not safe to say.” I soften, too. “The less you know, the better.”
“Ahem.” Mr. Muscle mutters, “Sounds familiar.”
“This isn’t a monasteryoran apartment building.” The Pastor ignores his brother. “Parts of this church were built centuries ago. No one lives here. It’s a historic landmark.”
“But you livebehindit.” Mr. Muscle pushes from the doorjamb. “On the other side of the old graveyard.”
“Why, thank you, Charleston tour guide,” he mocks his not-so-little brother, who doled out the deets. “Wanna give her a horse-drawn carriage ride while you tell herallmy shit? Maybe point out where I grocery shop, too?”
Okay.
Now they’re colossalandcute, and I suspect The Pastor wouldn’t curse if the playful boy in his arms understood English. He keeps calling himPadreand poking his face.
And what a face.
Strong brows. Perfect nose. Full lips. Especially that bottom one. The dark brown scruff on his angular jaw threatens to be a beard. It mirrors his dark brown hair, kissed by the southern sun. Black ink crawls up his thick neck, snaking down his thick fingers, too. His thin T-shirt can’t hide his wide, ripped form. He’s tall, but everyone’s taller than me. That’s not amazing.
But it’s his eyes.
They’reamazing.
They remind me of my favorite flowers—blue hydrangeas. How they draw from their roots, changing their color depending on how they’re nourished.
So, can I change his mind, too?
Hopefully … because I won’t change mine.
“Keep me safe.” I step into his shadow. “You’re my gift from God. You said it yourself before you let some asshole cut off your pinky for me. Don’t tell me something didn’t speak to you then.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “an evil sex trafficker spoke to me, and it was the only way to get you and that little girl out of there.”
“Andthisone won’t tell us where she was kidnapped,” Mr. Muscle adds, frustrated by my silence this past week. “All the other girls? We found their families. They’re from everyrural town across Appalachia. But her? She won’t tell us where she’s from, just that she’s not a kid. She’s nineteen, and not safe if she goes home, so she’s staying here. Withyou.”
